


got your fingers snared in my veins

by violet_dissonance



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: 5+1 Things, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Dom/sub Undertones, Hand & Finger Kink, Hand Jobs, Love Confessions, M/M, Marking, Masturbation, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Semi-Public Sex, Teasing, i can't put a ;) after happy ending in that tag but it's there in spirit
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-03
Updated: 2020-05-07
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:08:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23987269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/violet_dissonance/pseuds/violet_dissonance
Summary: Geralt’s hands are cradling his leg and Jaskier finds he can not look away. He’s never noticed— how has he never noticed?— howbeautifulthey are. Long, shapely fingers with rough-bitten nails, the delicate curve of his knuckles shifting as they bend and flex, the fine little veins that flutter with every movement, like a sculpture carved by some long-dead master in marble come to life.—Or: 5 times Jaskier paid attention to Geralt's hands +1 time they paid attention to him
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 49
Kudos: 232





	1. 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to have this posted a literal calendar month ago because the more I sit with my own writing the less I like it, but then I had to move cross-country in the middle of a global pandemic and oopsy yoopsy, that didn't happen. Say lah vee, y'know?
> 
> Also, this is the first piece of writing I've published anywhere in over a decade, and in that grand AO3 tradition, it's purely self-indulgent porn. Cheers!
> 
> Title is from "Bury Your Flame" by La Dispute.

_1_

“To Geralt! To the White Wolf!” the alderman yells and the tavern erupts in cheers, cries of “Hear, hear!” and mugs and fists banging against tables. Someone starts up with a loud bawdy song that the whole room takes to immediately without even waiting for Jaskier’s accompaniment and that, he figures, is as good a chance as any that he’s going to get for a break. 

Making his way back to the corner booth where Geralt’s squirreled himself away is more challenging than it should be. The innkeeper's ale is blindingly strong and the locals exceedingly generous after being rid of the nearby cockatrice, offering the both of them rooms and a bath _and_ dinner _and_ as much ale as they can drink.

Jaskier can drink a lot of ale.

Has drunk a lot of ale. 

Is currently drinking a lot of ale, as an unseen hand passes him two more tankards full to the brim, slips a small bag of coin in his pocket and slaps him on the shoulder, almost sending him stumbling to the floor. Walking is _hard_. 

He makes it to the booth without landing face-first on the floorboards and even manages to slide one of the tankards over to Geralt while keeping half of the ale inside the cup. A night of roaring successes all around. 

“I love this town,” he says, leaning his chin against his fist as he gazes around the room fondly. “I love these people. You know, the world needs more of them. Just good, honest, salt-of-the-earth people making a living, doing their _best_ — ”

“This morning you called it a stain on the map full of inbreeds and half-wits,” Geralt deadpans.

“Hmm. I don’t think so. Doesn’t sound like me. Besides, why would I say such a thing about these lovely, benevolent souls?”

“You flirted with the farrier's daughter and he spat on your shoes.”

That… does sound like Jaskier, actually. “Well,” he says magnanimously, “that was this morning! And the past, as they say, is passed. This is the present, my witchery companion, and the present is a _gift_.” With that, he reaches for his ale. 

Only to have it snatched away by a grumpy spoilsport who hands it off to a passing barmaid and _smirks_ at him, the bastard. “I think you’ve had enough for tonight,” Geralt says pointedly.

“I was drinking that! And what do you mean, ‘had enough,’ what exactly are you implying?”

“Not implying anything. I’m telling you, you’re already drunk enough that you’ll regret it come morning.”

“I am not _drunk,_ ” Jaskier scoffs. “I’m _not_ , you— make your eyebrows stop doing that, I’m serious. I haven’t even had that much to drink!” He starts counting on his fingers. “Let’s see, there was the beer, the wine with supper, then some ale, then someone brought me vodka, another ale and, uhh… oh, the whiskeys! So that’s….” Math, math, how does math work again? “Twenty-nine drinks!” he crows victoriously.

Geralt looks like he’s trying to hold back a laugh. Either that, or he’s constipated. It’s very hard to tell with the man sometimes. 

“Stop making that face at me, that doesn’t mean anything. I’m not good with numbers when I’m sober either. I studied liberal arts!” 

“Mmhm.”

In a brilliantly covert move, Jaskier reaches across the table and steals Geralt’s tankard after only two missed attempts. “The _point_ is, I hold my liquor like a damned professional, thank you very much. I am perhaps _mildly_ intoxicated at worst. Miles away from drunk. Continents away.” He waggles his head and very confidently takes a swig. Half of it splashes down his shirtfront in a suave, completely intentional way.

“You were dancing,” Geralt says, grabbing the cup back. 

“And? What’s that got to do with anything?”

“You dance when you’re drunk,” he explains, mouth half-twisted into a smile. “Badly. Like a duck with two left feet.”

“Ex _cuse me_?!” Jaskier splutters. “Like a— and you’re one to talk, are you? Hmm? Some kind of…” He flaps a hand, searching for a biting repartee. “...Dance critic?” Or that. “I’ve never seen you do so much as a two-step.”

“I know where my talents lie,” Geralt says with a significant tilt of his head. 

“As do I!” Jaskier protests. “I am a man of many talents. Don’t give me that look, it’s true! I’ll have you know I was once crowned the best dancer of the night by Est Tuisreich— Eits Tursech— Eyes Toorsect— by a prominent monarch himself.” 

Geralt’s still _laughing_ at him, so obviously the only recourse here is to prove it. He jumps to his feet, stamps out a beat with his fist on the table and springs into action. First the slide, one foot in front of the other, and then a little shuffling kick one-two-three, the bow, the twirl, the leap—

The world suddenly tilts sharply and Jaskier finds himself flat on his back staring at the ceiling, surrounded by overturned chairs and roaring laughter.

“Jaskier?” Geralt’s voice says from somewhere nearby. He isn’t laughing anymore. He sounds a little worried. “Jaskier, are you alright?”

“I’m _fine_ ,” he says, tries to stand, and falls flat on his ass again as his ankle throbs painfully. “Um. Perhaps I spoke too soon. I seem to have broken my ankle.”

A very rude snort. “It’s not broken.”

“How do _you_ know?”

“Because I’m looking at it,” Geralt says, and Jaskier tilts his chin down enough to see Geralt crouched beside him on the floor. His ankle is, in fact, in one piece without any bones sticking out even. He tries to stand up again. Falls down again. 

“Yeah, no, definitely broken. It’s fine, I’ll just live down here now. I can play like this, shouldn’t be too difficult. You’ll stop by to visit now and again, won’t you, Geralt? Reminisce with an old friend?”

Geralt rolls his eyes and rights one of the chairs Jaskier had knocked over. Then he slides one hand under Jaskier’s knees, another under his head, and the world tilts back right-side up as he sets him in the chair. Unfortunately, it doesn’t _stop_ tilting, and Jaskier almost tips back out onto the floor once more until Geralt catches him by the shoulder and holds him up. 

“This doesn’t count towards what I was saying before,” Jaskier says. “Still not drunk.” 

Geralt rolls his eyes again and starts pushing up the leg of Jaskier’s trousers. 

“Hold on, whoa, wait a second! This is _Lyrian silk_ embroidery, you can’t just crumple it like that! I don’t know what you think you’re doing— ”

“Checking your ankle to see if it’s broken,” Geralt says with a raised brow. 

“Oh.” Jaskier blinks. “I guess that’s alright, then. I mean, it definitely is broken for the record, but. Proceed.”

Really, Geralt’s eyes might fall right out of his head if he keeps rolling them like that. With the trouser leg pushed up to Jaskier’s knee, he cups one hand around his heel, pulls his leg out straight, and uses the other to begin rolling it in gentle circles, testing the strain. 

There was a saying Jaskier had heard once about elves, that when they hunted they found a use for every part of the animal. He’s always fancied himself the same sort of lover, finding something to love in every single part of the people whose beds he finds his way into. Often, the parts he loved the most were the very things they found so difficult to love in themselves— a stubby nose or gap-toothed smile, close-set eyes, knobby knees, wide hips. 

After so many years that he’s lost count following Geralt to the edges of the world and back, watching and yearning, he thought he’d found all those little parts. The myriad scars, his crooked teeth, the long eyelashes that flutter in his sleep, the divot in his chin, the point of his widow’s peak, all of them cataloged and cherished, every single one. Or so he’d thought. But somehow it’s here, in a bustling tavern with his liver pickling and his ankle throbbing in pain, that Jaskier realizes how wrong he was. 

Because Geralt’s hands are cradling his leg and Jaskier finds he can not look away. He’s never noticed— how has he never noticed?— how _beautiful_ they are. Long, shapely fingers with rough-bitten nails, the delicate curve of his knuckles shifting as they bend and flex, the fine little veins that flutter with every movement, like a sculpture carved by some long-dead master in marble come to life. They’re toughened with calluses on his palms from the decades spent handling a blade, but deceptively soft at his fingertips. There’s a strength in them as he holds the leg’s full weight and turns it this way and that, pressing for sore spots with gentle precision that makes the tendons in the back of his hand dance, makes them ripple like currents in a stream.

Jaskier feels suddenly very sober. 

“Any of this hurting?” Geralt asks, looking up at him.

“O-only a little,” he says, stifling the tiny melodramatic part of himself that screams, _Yes, like an arrow to the heart_.

“Hm.” Geralt sets his foot back down and unrolls his pant leg. “You might have twisted it a bit.”

“Like I said. Broken.”

Geralt snorts again. “Hardly. Keep the weight off it and it should be good as new by morning. Just try not to dance any more jigs.”

Jaskier hobbles back into the booth with the minimum amount of caterwauling (ten minutes is a very healthy minimum, actually) and spends the rest of the evening sipping water and very resolutely _not_ staring at Geralt’s fingers curled around the curve of a mug or flexing against the edge of the table. So now he knows that the witcher has hands shaped by the gods themselves. That’s fine. It’s not like Jaskier can’t handle that. Of course he can. Hell, he’s practically a consummate professional by now in handling Geralt-related feelings. It’s easy. It’s fine.

He’s _fine_.

And if later in the safety and privacy of his own room as he gets himself off to the memory of a quick romp with a young blue-eyed knight, if his thoughts turn to what it might have felt like if he’d had the time to have the boy’s hands on him, whether they’d be rough, whether they’d be strong, whether he’d have tough calluses worn into his palms by years of swordwork, whether he’d hold Jaskier down with extraordinary strength, wrap them around his cock, press one then two then three fingers inside of him until Jaskier begged for more, stroke him with inhuman dexterity and watch him fall apart with a glitter in those golden cat-slit eyes, if the thought of it makes him come so hard he feels tears gathering at the corner of his lids—

Well. The ale was powerfully strong.

It’s not like it’s a _thing_. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Henry Cavill's hands: exist  
> me, a dehydrated gay: 👀 👀 👀
> 
> I have a [tumblr!](https://violet-dissonance.tumblr.com/)


	2. 2

_2_

“Oh, I am going to _eviscerate_ Valdo Marx!”

“What?” Geralt barks, head on a swivel and sword raised.

“Valdo Marx,” Jaskier repeats and bails another bucketful of water over the edge of their little boat. “Singer. Cidaris? He wrote that absolutely hackneyed _Ode to a Siren_ about the ‘beautiful lady of the sea’ because he’s a complete _liar_ and a talentless imbecile who’s never— ”

“Down!” Everything tips precariously as another of the hideous winged monsters dives towards them with an ear-splitting shriek and Geralt lunges forward. His silver sword glitters through the air, taking its head off in one clean stroke. The shimmering magic shield surrounding them both shatters and two more sirens seize on the opportunity, plummeting forward with razor-tipped claws raised. Geralt lifts his free hand and crooks his middle finger inwards, presses forward hard like he’s slamming a door. A blast of wind bursts from his palm, sending them both careening down and away. Another quick movement of his hand, thumb and pinky tucked in and a sweeping arc traced through the air, and the shimmering shield reappears. 

“Well,” Jaskier says, “that’s handy.” Normally he’d pester Geralt into at least acknowledging his very clever wordplay, but another wave comes crashing over the side of the boat and he has to scramble to bail it out. 

He’s seen Geralt use Signs before, of course, flicking his fingers to light a campfire or waving a hand in front of an angry husband’s face to convince him to leave without a fight (or Jaskier’s balls). But those only happened on chance occasions and he was usually cowering from imminent castration when they did. This— sitting barely an arm’s length away as Geralt’s lithe fingers dance through intricate patterns, twisting with deft precision— this is very novel. 

If he wasn’t soaked through to the bone with icy seawater, he thinks his cock might have something to say about this situation. Perhaps the sirens threatening death from above should put more of a damper on things, but then again, no one’s ever accused his prick of being _rational._

A blue hand tipped with long, gnarled claws sinks into the wood near Jaskier’s face and tugs until the boards begin to creak. From the waves, a head covered in tangled dark hair with a fang-filled grin stretching all the way to its ears rises to stare at him and he scrambles back as far as the tight quarters allow, yelping, “Geralt!” 

The witcher spins and thrusts a hand forward, inches from Jaskier’s face. His fingers curl and flex and a gout of flames erupts from his fingertips. They catch on the siren’s wings, licking up the feathers quickly, and it screams and sinks back below the waves. His hands stay steady as stone holding the spell.

That shouldn’t be attractive. That’s not attractive. Jaskier needs to sit and have a very serious chat with himself about why he should _not_ find that attractive. 

After that, the fighting is over quickly. Geralt takes an arm off one of the creatures, the head off another, and the rest scatter in his wake, winging away as fast as they can. 

“Bravo!” Jaskier cheers. “Ah, that was inspired, Geralt, truly inspired. They’ll be singing the song of this for ages once I write it. And unlike the utter drivel churned out by certain charlatans I could name, it’ll be a _true_ story. Twice as popular for it, too, I’ll wager. Gods, I can’t wait to rub his smarmy smug face in— ”

Just as he rises to take his seat again, a wave slaps hard against the side of the boat, rocking it wildly, and Jaskier stumbles, losing his balance. Arms windmilling, he pitches forward, then backwards, then forward again and it’s too far, he sees the crests pink with bloody foam rising to meet him, takes a deep breath and squeezes his eyes shut tight and—

A hand locks around his wrist, tugging him back _hard_ and he slams into Geralt’s chest, barely gets a palm up between them to keep himself from smacking his nose against the witcher’s shoulder. Under their feet, the boat sways, slows, steadies. Neither of them move apart. 

Jaskier can’t stop staring at the hand around his wrist, white-knuckled and bruisingly tight. It is, he realizes with a start, the same one he just watched hurl spells and flames with lethal precision. Gods, but his hands are big. Jaskier isn’t exactly bird-boned, but Geralt’s rugged fingers still wrap easily all the way around to overlap with his thumb. And there’s that thing that they say about big hands….

Geralt clears his throat, startling Jaskier out of his thoughts. Oh, fuck, how long has he just been standing there, staring? Much too long, certainly. “Sorry!” he squeaks, scrambling back onto his own side of the little boat. 

If Geralt noticed his little reverie, he doesn’t comment beyond, “Hm,” as he turns away to retrieve the oar, the tips of his ears pink with cold.

Their clothes have both dried stiff with sea salt by the time they make it back to shore. Geralt collects his pay at the little seaside inn, and Jaskier leads the bar in the fastest rendition of “Toss a Coin” he’s ever sung before pleading with the innkeep to let him bathe before earning the rest of his stay. She agrees, bless her, and Jaskier practically dances upstairs, leaving Geralt to his dinner. 

The moan he lets out as he sinks into the steaming tub is downright obscene and can probably be heard clear downstairs but he doesn’t even _care_. The warmth sinking back into sore muscles and unlocking joints that shivered tight feels too damn good. While scrubbing the grit out of his hair, he finally feels his toes again for the first time in hours. And then, as he reaches for a bottle of scented oil, he sees the bruise.

Bruis _es_ , more accurately. A ring of them around his wrist, evenly spaced, just beginning to turn from red to purple. Four long lines on one side, a single shorter one on the other and he can’t tamp down on the shaky gasp that rocks through him when he realizes. Can’t help the way it makes his cock _kick_ hard against his stomach. 

He reaches down below the water, gets a hand around himself and tries, _tries_ to make himself think of anything else. A woman, blonde and beautiful and buxom, laughing and pressing his face into her soft breasts. Her lips trailing promising little kisses down his body. A mouth on his cock, warm and wet and eager.

Fingers, white-knuckled on his wrist. Broad palms, rough knuckles, ragged nails. The nimble, cunning strength in them as they twisted in a practiced dance, sent sparks flying. That same strength leaving bruises on his skin like a brand, like—

With his other thumb, he presses against the purpling skin on his wrist, suddenly hurtling over the edge, and he comes with a shout, comes _hard_. As he slumps back against the side of the tub, he swears.

So maybe it is a thing. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a [tumblr!](https://violet-dissonance.tumblr.com/)


	3. 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter today, _but_ the next one is the long one that caught _~*feelings*~_ , and I might (maybe possibly) be able to upload it later tonight. Thank you all so, so much for your comments and kudos! They really do mean the world to me.

_3_

The damp ends of Jaskier’s hair are dripping onto his toes but he can’t find it in himself to move. In fact, he thinks, it might actually be a sin to move when he’s got such a magnificent view from here. Surely there must be _something_ about this situation that is sinful. 

He’d left the room nearly an hour ago, ostensibly for a bath but mainly to escape the sight of Geralt sharpening his steel sword with a deadly focus— the muscles in his forearms bulging deliciously under his rolled sleeves with each slow pass of steel against stone, slow as torture, and the practiced little flip of his fingers that he used to twist the blade around, and the way the tendons in the back of his hand jumped as he kept steady pressure sliding along its length—

It had been a very cold bath. 

Again, nearly an _hour_ ago. He’d naively assumed that would give any reasonable person enough time to move onto a slightly less maddening activity but oh gods, had he been wrong. So wrong. His heartbeat is doing acrobatic little backflips inside his chest because now, Melitele fucking preserve him, now the man has moved onto _polishing_. 

The oil makes his hands shine in the low lamplight like silver, like pearls. Shadows dance across his knuckles, throwing them into sharp relief as he works the cloth in slow, rhythmic circles tracing up one edge of the blade and down the other. He’s meticulously careful, only pausing every now and again to apply more oil to the stained cloth or run the edge of his thumb along the grain of the metal, testing for something, Jaskier doesn’t know what. Hell, Jaskier can hardly _think_ past the rush of blood draining downwards rapidly enough to leave him dizzy. 

All the way up, those long, shapely fingers rubbing in fluid motions from guard to point and sliding back down again and then _flip_ , that adept little finger flick on the pommel turning the blade around so he can repeat the same action on the other side. A droplet of oil escapes the cloth and trails down the line of Geralt’s thumb all the way to the wrist and Jaskier feels the uncontrollable urge to chase it with his tongue. Gods, he didn’t even get the chance to lace his breeches back up but they’re still feeling almost uncomfortably tight.

One more little flourish to turn the steel again and then he, oh _hell_ , wraps the cloth in his hand around the blade and guides it slow and steady all the way up, up, up in a gloriously suggestive motion from base to tip and then again and _again_ and Jaskier wants more than anything to feel that grip on his cock, wants to bite those fingertips and their coarse knuckles, wants them in his hair and on his throat and _inside_ him, wants— wants—

Fucking _hell_.

“Where are you going?” Geralt asks, looking up for the first time. 

“Bath.”

“But you just—”

“Yes, well, I missed a spot!” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a [tumblr!](https://violet-dissonance.tumblr.com/)


	4. 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all ready for some feelings? Some emotions? Some gotdam sentiments?
> 
> Please see the end notes for content warnings!

_4_

If there truly is a limit to witcher stamina, they must be approaching it. Surely they must. Geralt hasn’t slept for three days, going on four, and the line of his shoulders is tense as a wound lute string. He rides as quickly as Jaskier can follow from the break of dawn to well past dusk, stops only to let Roach rest, hunts dinner that he doesn’t eat a single bite of, and wanders off far enough to let Jaskier sleep but not far enough that he can’t hear the laborious sounds of Geralt forcing himself through training the whole night through until daybreak when they pack up to do it all over again. 

Jaskier dreams, as he has for the past three nights, of the job. The mother of the missing child, her eyes wide and wet and red-rimmed as she pleaded for someone to save her son. Bones, too small, gnawed clean and scattered outside a tomb, the cloying stench of cadaverine and rot. A child’s loud, shrill scream and Geralt rushing forward with sword drawn in the same instant that it choked and gurgled and fell away. The mother’s haunting, tortured wail, sounding like it were ripped from the deepest place inside her—

“Jask.” Geralt shakes him awake with a cry caught in his throat. He must have been making noise in his sleep again. It takes him a few moments to reorient and remember where he is. A clearing just off the road, not a graveyard; a clear night, not a stormy one; a pot of clean water bubbling over the fire, not—

He shudders violently and Geralt’s grip around his shoulder tightens, holding him upright. “I’m fine,” he manages in a hoarse rasp, says it again to convince himself it’s true. “I’m fine, I’m fine. Really. It was just…. ”

“A nightmare,” Geralt finishes when he doesn’t. At Jaskier’s nod, he claps him on the shoulder, says, “It’s alright. Get some rest.” It’s rich, coming from a man with bags under his eyes so dark they could be black eyes, but Jaskier doesn’t press it, only nods again and moves to wrap himself back up in his bedroll. As he does, his eye catches on a red spot on the sleeve of his shirt. 

Blood, bright crimson and fresh, small enough that the tip of his finger covers the spot completely. He isn’t wounded though; it can’t be his unless he thrashed so badly he hurt himself in his sleep. And the placement is awkward enough that he can’t imagine how he’d do that— it’s high up on the sleeve, right below the shoulder, in fact right where….

“Geralt?” he says hesitantly. The witcher grunts in response from where he’s knelt to warm his hands by the fire. “Are you—” 

He never finishes the question because now that he’s looking, the weak light of the fire illuminates just enough to let him see. Geralt’s hands are a _mess_. Blisters bubbling on his fingers, bruises spread across his knuckles and palms, whole patches at the heel of his hand that are ripped down to inflamed raw skin with ragged edges. On his left hand, a torn callus is smudged rusty red and beads up with droplets of blood, the source of Jaskier’s stain. 

“ _Geralt_ ,” he gasps, scrambling over and taking him by the wrists. Up close, the damage seems even worse. It looks like Geralt’s been going hand-to-hand with a meat grinder. Jaskier’s a musician, it’s not as if he’s a stranger to blisters and bruises, but this— this is well beyond the pale. His head is buzzing with questions but he settles on, “ _Why_?”

They both know how easily Geralt could break out of the hold on his wrists, but he doesn’t. He stays and he lets Jaskier hold him there and he answers in a flat monotone, “I need to be better.”

There’s a _lot_ Jaskier could say to that, most of it very loud and outraged, but that tone keeps all of it on the tip of his tongue. It’s the tone Geralt uses when he repeats lies he’s been told so often he’s started telling them to himself, the tone he uses when he says things like “feelings are only a hindrance” or “I need no one.” It means that Jaskier could scream the truth until he’s blue in the face and it wouldn’t do a single thing to break down the brick wall Geralt’s built.

So he doesn’t scream or get loud and outraged. Instead, he does his level best to keep his voice light as he says, “What you need right now is someone to take care of you—”

“I don’t—”

“—and since you don’t seem to be particularly interested in the job,” Jaskier plows on, “I suppose it falls to me. Luckily for you this is an area in which I do actually have a modicum of experience, so you’re in good hands. Sit.”

It must be the lack of sleep that keeps Geralt from arguing as he takes perch on the fallen log near the flames. His amber eyes track Jaskier’s movements around their little encampment while he gathers his supplies: the salts and salves from his pack, two shallow tin bowls from Geralt’s, a roll of bandages tucked under one arm, and a few ladlefuls of clean boiled water from the pot. 

He soaks a clean rag in one bowl before tossing a handful of herbed salts in both to dissolve and then sets to work wiping down Geralt’s hands as gently as he can, trying his best not to irritate the already aggravated skin. When the worst of the grime is gone and the salt has dissolved, he lifts first one hand, then the other and places them into the shallow dishes to soak. He knows from experience how it stings, especially on broken skin, but Geralt doesn’t flinch at all. 

“The first time I had to learn how to do this was in Ellander,” he says, though for the life of him he doesn’t know why. Anything, he supposes, to fill the silence while they wait for the soak to do its work. Anything to distract him from the too-present feeling of those amber eyes watching his every move. “You know the Balladry Contests they have there every year? It was my first time competing. I must have been, hmm, fifteen maybe? Perhaps a little younger. I remember I’d written this piece especially for the contest, can’t recall a note of it now, but I was _terrified_ that I’d forget it on stage. Like I’d set foot up there in front of everyone and _pop_!” He snaps. “All of it would fall right out of my head. So I stayed up all night practicing, over and over and over again. I must have played that piece two hundred times, until I was absolutely sure it was tattooed on the inside of my skull. Except by the time the sun came up, I’d played holes in every single one of my fingers.”

Soak finished, he carefully lifts Geralt’s hands from the tins and pats them dry. Then he uncaps the salve, scoops out a dollop with two fingers. It smells of beeswax and mountain tobacco, comfrey and calendula; musky and a little like wet wood. The eyes watching him never shift. 

“I couldn’t pluck a note without crying,” he continues as he begins smearing the salve onto Geralt’s wounds. First on the reddened raw patches at the heel of his hand, then a thin layer on the blisters wrapped around the knuckles at the base of each finger. “ _Was_ crying, actually, rather a lot. And then this woman comes up, arms like this,” he holds his hands up in a circle as wide as his own head, “and goes, ‘Oh, doll, that’s nothing. We’ll have that patched up before I’m done with my drink.’ Drummers.” He rolls his eyes with a wry grin and works a fingerful of ointment into the torn callus. It pinks up but the bleeding slows. 

Bandages next. He wraps the linen around the worst areas of broken skin, not too tight, winds it between Geralt’s middle and ring fingers to secure it without getting in his way. “She did, though. She showed me what herbs to use, how to clean the wounds so they won’t get infected, how to tie the bandages so they don’t slip, all before the competition started, before breakfast was even done. Saved my bacon in ten minutes flat and all without ever telling me her name.” One last tie-off and he’s finished, but he grips Geralt by the wrists again and holds him there once more as he looks up and meets his unwavering gaze. 

“I didn’t make it past the first round,” he says. “Skipped half a bridge because I was too tired to think straight and I bled right through the bandages, all over my lute. Turns out the Ellandrian nobility don’t actually appreciate a man literally bleeding for his art. All that worrying that I hadn’t practiced enough, and in the end it was the practice that did me in.”

Geralt finally breaks his stare at that, looking away with a scowl. “You can spare me your obvious moralizing, bard, I’m not in the mood.”

“Can I? Because from where I’m sitting it seems pretty self-evident you need a reminder that working past the point of injury never turns out well, Sir ‘Hurting Myself Makes Me Better’ of Rivia.”

“I’m not hurting myself.”

That’s laughable, but Jaskier doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t even dignify it with an answer, just holds Geralt’s mangled bandaged hands up to eye level, raising an eyebrow. 

Geralt’s scowl deepens. “That doesn’t count. It’ll be healed by morning.”

“And if something attacks us tonight? If your fingers are too swollen to swing a sword and some creature comes prowling in and— ”

“ _Don’t_.” The sudden snarl bursts from low in Geralt’s chest and he rips his wrists free of Jaskier’s grip, pushes past him to storm off to the other side of the fire. “Don’t you dare. Damn you, that’s not— Not fair, not when it’s. When you. I’m not going to fucking lose— ” He cuts himself off with a harsh exhale through his nose, clenches his eyes and his fists hard and _seethes_.

And maybe if it wasn’t the middle of the night, if he had some rest, Jaskier could piece that apart, could break out his Geralt-to-Common-Speech translator book and figure out what the hell he’s talking about, but he doesn’t know what that _means_. Doesn’t even know where to start. “I’m not— ”

“You should leave.” It hits like an iron ball between the eyes, stops him cold. “I don’t even know why you’ve stayed this long. There’s no great story here, bard, nothing for you. Clearly you believe I’m not able to keep you safe and I’m doing you more harm than good, so do us both a favor and go. Get out of here and don’t come back.” Geralt doesn’t even turn to look at him as he does his very best to tear Jaskier’s heart to shreds.

It should hurt. It should kill Jaskier. It almost does, but. 

But it’s that same flatly false tone. A lie, one Geralt has told himself, maybe even one he wants to believe, but he doesn’t. The killing stroke feints at the last second and glances off of him, because Jaskier knows Geralt better than he knows anyone else in this world including himself and he knows down to his marrow that Geralt doesn’t mean it. Geralt doesn’t say what he means. He wraps it up in lies and half-truths and omissions and pretends that he doesn’t feel the things he feels, doesn’t want the things he wants, because it’s easier to push it all away than to let himself have something good and lose it. To let himself—

The truth barrels into him then, all at once. Because Geralt doesn’t say what he means directly but he says it all the same. Jaskier knows this. And he knows now what Geralt means. What he’s always meant with the sidelong smiling glances when he thinks Jaskier isn’t looking, with the way the harsh lines of worry in his face smooth out when they meet again after a long while apart, with the lingering touches and fond exasperation and every “come along then,” with all the many miles and years. He hears it, the ends of those sentences, what Geralt won’t let himself have, won’t say: _not when it’s for you_ , _when you’re the one I care about, I’m not going to fucking lose you_. 

_Oh_ , he thinks. _Oh, we’re both such_ idiots _._

“Geralt,” he says, and then again, “Geralt, Geralt, I. I’m not leaving.” The witcher opens his mouth to say something stupid and flat and false, but Jaskier talks right over it and doesn’t let him. “I’m not, and you can try to push me away and make me if you’d like, but I won’t let you, I won’t let anything make me leave you. I— ”

And it’s not hard at all to say the words now, not like he’d always thought it would be. It’s easy, so easy, like falling, “— I love you. I have done since, gods, since I was eighteen years old and I watched you look death in the face and speak to it with compassion. I do it every morning, every day, every night, I— I _love_ you, Geralt, and there is nothing you or anything else could do to make me leave you, nothing anyone could ever do to change that, you hear me? No human or witcher or monster or god, _nothing_ that—”

He’s interrupted when Geralt takes three great strides across the camp, grabs him by the back of the neck and pulls him into a kiss, fierce and raw, a _claiming_ kiss, and Jaskier meets it, every inch. Geralt’s hand presses against his back, pulling him in close and tight, and Jaskier’s find their way into Geralt’s hair as he holds him in place and kisses him until he’s breathless, then kisses him some more. 

He can feel himself grinning like an absolute loon when Geralt pulls back to let them both breathe. He wants very much to chase after him but those strong arms hold him in place with an ease that makes his heart thump hard in his chest. Geralt’s eyes search his face, running a circuit from his eyes to his lips to his throat and back again. 

“Say it again,” he pleads, as if Jaskier could refuse him anything, especially that. 

“I love you.” He’s still smiling when Geralt kisses him again, laughs into it. “How could you not know?” he manages to get out between kisses and giggles. “How could you— I think— think the whole _Continent_ knows. It’s— every song, every word in every one of them— they’re all about you— always been— ” 

“I love you,” Geralt growls, and _oh_. Jaskier’s heart jumps into a wild gallop as he gasps, suddenly unable to catch his breath. It’s the most wonderful song he’s ever heard, those words, the taste of them against his lips sweeter than wine. Geralt doesn’t make him ask, murmurs it again and again, “I love you, I love you, _Jaskier_ , I love you, I—” until Jaskier _has_ to kiss him quiet before he bursts from how full his heart feels. 

Full but light, he feels so _light_ , like the slightest breeze could pick him up and he’d float away all the way up to the moon if Geralt wasn’t holding him down. He has to pull away to gasp for air but Geralt keeps going, trailing kisses down the corner of his mouth to his jaw, then all the way to his ear, tugging at the lobe with his teeth in a move that has Jaskier’s skin breaking out in gooseflesh all over as he _shudders_. Geralt’s mouth traces lower, down his neck, across his throat, and—

Jaskier yawns explosively in his ear. 

“Sorry,” he stammers when he regains himself. “Sorry, I don’t know why that happened. I didn’t— that was definitely _not_ a commentary on your performance, by the way. I was, er, _very_ much enjoying all of that, so if you’d like to proceed I am more than— ” Another massive yawn swallows the end of that sentence and he can see the soft, amused crinkles at the corners of Geralt’s eyes, already knows what he’s about to say. He tries to head it off with an open-mouthed, “No, no, no,” but,

“You should get some sleep,” Geralt says.

“No!” Jaskier gasps, betrayed. “I am _fine_ , honestly, it was one little yawn—”

“Two.”

“Well, that’s not— fine, _two_ little yawns, but I don’t see why that should mean we can’t continahyahah— ” Oh gods _damn_ it. Geralt doesn’t even say anything this time, just cocks an eyebrow loaded with meaning. “But I don’t _want_ to go to sleep,” Jaskier complains petulantly. “That’s not how this is supposed to go. There is not a single ballad that includes a break for a quick snooze. Well, maybe the one with the fairies and the spinning wheel, but— Look, the point is I did the scary part where I talked about my feelings, so now I am fully entitled to reap the rewards of that endeavor all night long, until I can’t walk.”

Geralt’s eyes _flash_ at that and Jaskier almost thinks he’s going to give in when he leans forward again, but he doesn’t. He cups Jaskier’s face in both hands and presses a soft kiss against his forehead, his temple, the side of his cheekbone, one eyelid, then up and over the bridge of his nose to the other one and down to peck once against his lips. “Sleep,” he says insistently, somehow at once both a request and a command. 

And Jaskier is fully prepared to argue more, to lay out all the very logical reasons that Geralt should fuck him senseless right here and now, but…. But with his eyes closed, he can suddenly feel how heavy they are. Opening them again feels all at once like a monumental task. He sways slightly on his feet, feeling the aches and soreness settled deep in his muscles rising slowly to the surface. “Maybe…” he hears himself say from a great distance, “maybe just a little nap. A short one.”

He lets Geralt lead him blind back to the bedroll and lay him down, tucking the blankets around him. With the last of the rapidly draining energy left in him, he cracks one eyelid and grabs Geralt’s wrist before he can retreat. 

“Lie down with me?” he asks. Geralt’s eyes go all soft around the edges. He nods, once. 

With his witcher wrapped around him sleep comes easier than it has in days. It’s warm and welcoming, but just before he slips under a fearful little idea wiggles its way into his head. A thought that in that halfway space between consciousness slowly morphs into a dream, a vision of waking up cold, alone, abandoned—

“G’ralt?” he mumbles, and feels more than hears the answering _hmm_ rumble against him. “You’ll stay, right?”

A subtle little intake of breath behind him, and then something warm pressing against the nape of his neck. “I’ll stay.”

“Pr’mise?”

“I promise. Now sleep.”

Jaskier takes two slow breaths, hears a sound like the ocean crashing over his head, and does. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings for:  
> *very brief mention of death of a child  
> *mild hand injury - blisters and bruises, very minor bleeding, no permanent damage  
> *possible self-harm trigger - Geralt trains to the point of mild injury and discusses his reasoning in terms that could be triggering
> 
> If you have any questions or concerns about possible triggers, please feel free to leave a message for me here or at my [tumblr](https://violet-dissonance.tumblr.com/).


	5. 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You made it through the feelings! Now enjoy little a smut, as a treat.
> 
> Please see the end notes for content warnings!

_5_

Geralt keeps his promise. He’s there when Jaskier wakes, one arm still looped lightly around his waist to hold him close. Before he’s even conscious enough to manage a “good morning” or begin to worry that the night before was all just a particularly vivid dream, Geralt rolls him over and kisses him breathless. They both smell terrible, haven’t bathed properly in half a week, and Jaskier knows he must have the most awful morning breath and itchy, sleep-crusted eyes and he’s sweating fiercely from the combined heat of Geralt on one side and the fire on the other and he wants to stay here, just like this, _forever_. 

One of Geralt’s hands comes up to rest gently at the base of his throat and the other settles on his hip, achingly close to his morning-stiff cock which is making its interest in the proceedings well-known. It shocks a shaky moan out of Jaskier that he tries to muffle against the sharp line of Geralt’s jaw. Not to any degree of success, if that low, rumbling laugh is anything to go by, but he’s been awake for all of five minutes and been kissed magnificently for four of them, he thinks he’s allowed to get a little carried away. Geralt braces himself lightly against Jaskier’s collarbone as he reaches over him to grab something and oh, yes, Jaskier is _ready_ , he’s been ready for years, he’s so—

The bundle of clothing hitting him in the chest is unexpected, as is Geralt’s order of “Get dressed.”

“Um.” He picks at the pile to keep himself from reaching out needily as they peel apart. As he suspected it’s his own clothing, the sunny yellow doublet and buttery leather trousers he’s been wearing on the road, but that doesn’t exactly clear up the _why_. “So enlighten me, Geralt. Are things different with witchers? Because historically it’s been my understanding that the point of these endeavors is to get _un_ dressed.”

“There’s a town a few hours down the road,” Geralt answers as he begins packing up and tearing down their little camp, which does absolutely nothing to explain why he’s stopped kissing Jaskier or why he wants him to put on _more_ clothing. He gets the distinct feeling that they’re having two different conversations, until Geralt says too casually, “I hear the inn is good. Nice beds.” 

Ah. Well. That’s an entirely different kettle of fish. Jaskier is obviously not opposed to riding Geralt’s cock right there on the forest floor— really, he’s _extremely_ unopposed and entirely prepared to prove that as many times as necessary— but he also does appreciate his creature comforts and the thought of getting to do that in a _bed,_ after a _bath_ is just…. 

“Are they?” he replies breezily in a tone half an octave higher than normal. “Well, then. I suppose I’ll be the judge of that.”

“Suppose you will,” Geralt says, holding back a laugh.

Jaskier has never packed faster in his _life_. He tosses his supplies back in his bag without a hint of rhyme or reason and doesn’t even bother straightening out his blankets before rolling them back up into a lumpy, awkward shape. He’ll probably kick himself for that later, he knows, but right now the thought of stalling what’s to come so that he can spend time organizing seems downright ludicrous. 

Geralt, already astride Roach, glances over the uneven bedroll with a laughing glint in his eye when Jaskier passes it up to him but blessedly doesn’t comment as he ties it to the horse’s pack. And then he does the second entirely unexpected thing of the morning and holds out a hand as he says, “Climb up.” 

Jaskier can count on one hand the number of times Geralt’s let him ride Roach, and almost all of them involved him being injured or sick or unconscious in some way. But horseback is certainly much faster than on foot, so he’s not about to look this literal gift horse in the mouth. He fits a foot in the stirrup and lets Geralt haul him up in front on the saddle, silk-clad back to armored chest. His arms reach around Jaskier, bracketing him in as he takes hold of the reins and guides them back to the main road where he nudges Roach into a gentle trot. 

Jaskier’s whistling back at the sparrows in the trees, trying to get them to pick up one of his tunes, when the hand lands on his thigh just above his knee. At first he thinks it’s only Geralt steadying himself, but then it inches higher and then even _higher_ and when he looks down—

Somehow his daydreams never managed to even come close to the actual sight of that broad hand spread across his leg, fingertips mere inches away from his cock. It’s… extremely distracting. He hasn’t quite gone soft since waking up and it would be so easy, the smallest little slide for those fingers to reach over, to touch, to…. 

The heat, he thinks dazedly, it must be the heat radiating off Geralt’s palm through the leather all the way down into his bones, it feels like. And the weight of it heavy against him, anchoring him in place. Even his imagination couldn’t conjure that, how it sends his thoughts scattering.

The other hand sweeps up and over his chest without warning and settles with a palm right over his nipple which immediately pebbles up under the contact, the traitor. “Your heart’s racing,” Geralt comments. 

“Is it?” Jaskier manages when he’s mustered enough mental fortitude to decode that string of words. 

“Mmhm,” Geralt hums. “So I guess it wasn’t the swords.”

Jaskier’s brain is still struggling to function beyond _hands touching hot hot hot want_ but he’s pretty sure that that statement actually doesn’t make sense. “What?”

“The swords,” Geralt repeats, and then he says, “That day you stormed out to take your second bath in an hour. Your heart was racing then, too. You came back smelling like you’d just come. I figured it was either the swords that got you so excited or my hands,” all light and conversational like that’s a thing he can just _say_ , like that’s not a bomb dropped in the ruins of Jaskier’s psyche, holy _fuck_.

He squeaks in shock, and for some reason what his addled brain picks out of that life-ruining monologue is, “You can _smell_ that?”

“Mm,” Geralt grunts with a very obvious edge of amusement. 

“Oh, wonderful,” Jaskier groans, burying his face in his hands, “phenomenal, fantastic. That’s not mortifying in the slightest. Well, I’ve had a good long run of it, I suppose. You’ve got some rope in your bag, yes? If you’ll let me borrow it I can go ahead and hang myself from one of these trees. Shouldn’t take long. That one there looks sturdy enough. Or that one. Or that— _Geralt_!”

“Hm?” he hums casually, like a man who’s not actively unlacing Jaskier’s trousers there in the open sunlight in front of the gods and everyone. 

“What are you doing, you utter barbarian? This is a _highway_! You can’t just—!”

“There’s no one around for miles.” 

“You can’t know… well, alright, maybe _you_ can, but still! There’s— propriety to consider, and decency, and— oh, f- _fuck_.”

Geralt grins viciously against his shoulder. “You were saying?”

He was saying something? Whatever it was, it’s gone now, blown right out of his head along with everything else at the sight, the overwhelming sensation of Geralt’s hand on his cock. 

He’s hard embarrassingly quickly, a few languidly slow strokes taking him from half-hard to straining, but how can he not be with those sword calluses running rough against the sensitive underside of his head, the little flicks of Geralt’s thumb as he rubs the pad of it right over his slit? His grip is strong, just the right side of too tight, slow as an elegy and so steady Jaskier feels like he’s losing his mind. He doesn’t know whether he wants to laugh or cry when he realizes it’s timed to Geralt’s heartbeat. 

“Oh, _oh,_ Geralt,” he moans, letting his head loll back on an armored shoulder. “If your goal is to kill me, you’re... mmmf, you’re succeeding.”

Geralt stifles a laugh by nipping at the soft skin right behind Jaskier’s ear and he _yelps_ at the jolt that sends through him. “Not allowed to die yet,” he rumbles, soothing the bite with his tongue. “What happened to reaping your rewards until you can’t walk?” 

That sounds vaguely familiar, like something another Jaskier in another time said. Maybe one who wasn’t having his brain melted by an impossibly hot witcher intent on driving him mad with the slowest strokes known to man. “ _More,_ ” he says, aiming for demanding but landing somewhere closer to a breathy whine. “Geralt, come _on_.”

“Greedy.”

“Yeah,” Jaskier pants, not even trying to deny it. What would be the point? “I am, and you love me for it.”

Geralt _snarls_ at that, sinks his teeth into the side of Jaskier’s neck and suddenly sets a brutal pace that makes him _shout_. The last rational thought he has is a prayer that Geralt was right about no one being around. 

It’s so much better than he ever imagined it could be because it’s real, because it’s _Geralt_. His solid chest holding Jaskier up steadily as he wriggles into the overwhelming pleasure, away from it, towards it again in a mindless ebb and flow. His breath, hot and heavy as it ruffles in Jaskier’s hair. His teeth nipping at the back of his neck, the shell of his ear, the curve of his jaw, sending tingles scattering across his flesh. 

And his hands, oh gods and stars and devils and every other curse, his _hands,_ stroking with a fierce determination to pull Jaskier apart thread by thread, rubbing rough knuckles against one nipple and then the other until he sees stars, working over his body like an instrument. Past the pounding tempo of his heartbeat, he can hear himself singing for Geralt, “Please, please, right there, like that, _yes_ , don’t stop,” and “I can’t, I can’t, I can’t… oh fuck, yes I can, yes I can,” and “Geralt, you’re a _treasure_ , you’re glorious, you’re _evil_ , oh, mm, I love you, I fucking love you, I—”

Geralt groans low and deep and the hand against Jaskier’s chest reaches up to grip his jaw, turning him to meet a bruising kiss. It’s an awkward angle, a sloppy, biting thing, feels almost as unwound and wild as Jaskier does. 

“You’re so _wet_ ,” Geralt murmurs into his mouth and twists his fingers tight tight tight until Jaskier’s gasping.

He looks down, a fatal mistake. It’s transfixing, the sight of Geralt’s hand gripped around him. He can’t look away. Geralt’s right, he _is_ wet, spilling all messy and slick into his hand. It shines on his fingertips and Jaskier thinks _oh, that’s me_ with an abrupt shock. That’s him spread sticky over those nails and knuckles like a stain, like a _mark_ and all of a sudden he’s so startlingly close he can’t breathe. 

“Geralt,” he chokes in warning, “Geralt, Ger— I’m, oh, _oh, ahh_ …” It rises higher and higher and _higher_ and then—

Geralt’s hand lets go of him at the last possible second and Jaskier _wails_ , writhing against the arm across his hips holding as firm and unyielding as an iron bar. Mindlessly he tries to reach down, get a hand around himself and keep stroking until the coiled ball of tension low in his gut explodes, but Geralt growls and gathers both of his wrists in one wide palm, holds him back, makes him take it. For a long, breathless moment he hangs there over the cliff edge of what he’s sure is the most amazing orgasm he’ll ever have, clinging by the tips of his toes and pitching forward, forward— and then he slams backwards onto solid ground again. 

The sound that escapes him is shamefully close to a sob. “What the _hell_?” he snaps when he can speak again, breathlessness pitching it up to a keen. “You can’t just— you’re such a fucking— gods, I, you— ” He can’t even find the words for his frustration, has to resort to a groaning “ _augh_ ” as he slams his head back against Geralt’s shoulder. 

“Cute,” Geralt says, taking his life into his own hands.

Jaskier almost falls off Roach as he twists in the saddle to glare daggers at Geralt. “‘ _Cute_ ’?” he echoes murderously. If his hands weren’t still held fast, he’d have them locked around the witcher’s _throat_. “What the hell is so cute? I’ll show you ‘cute,’ you absolutely vile fiend, I’ll take it and shove it right up your— ”

Geralt cuts him off with a hand over his mouth (thankfully not the one still covered in his own sticky mess) and pulls him in tight against his body. With his mouth beside Jaskier’s ear, he can feel the little puffs of hot breath against the side of his face as Geralt rumbles, “It’s cute how you think I’m going to let you come before I’m inside you.”

All the frustration and anger positively melts out of him, along with every single bone in his body, and he shudders, _hard_. Gods, he doesn’t know what he did to deserve this, doesn’t know if this is a cosmic punishment or reward. It feels a little like both. The hand around his wrists returns to his cock, just slowly tracing a thumb along the vein there, but Jaskier’s so sensitive even that has him shaking and he realizes oh, fuck, Geralt isn’t going to stop. 

“Geralt,” he gasps. “Wait, you— I can’t, I can’t do it, I’ll come, I’ll come.”

“Not until I make you.”

But Jaskier shakes his head. “I will, Geralt, I won’t be able to make it, _please_.” A few hours to town, Geralt had said, and while Jaskier prides himself on his skills as a lover he knows his stamina is nowhere near a witcher’s. He doesn’t think he can survive _hours_ of endless teasing at the hands of one without spontaneously combusting. 

“Hmm,” Geralt hums. He moves his hand from Jaskier’s cock to scatter little light pinches over the soft skin on the insides of his thighs. It’s not any less teasing, but at least Jaskier can _think_ through it. “If you’d like me to stop, I’ll stop. Or…” He noses up the line of Jaskier’s neck to breathe against the back of his ear, “we could make a bet.”

“A b-bet?” It isn't fair. Geralt knows that Jaskier loves to gamble, knows he’s competitive, knows he’s going to say, “What kind of bet?”

“If you come before we make it to town, you’ll have to prepare yourself without me touching you. And I won’t let you come again until you beg for it.”

As losses go, it’s far from the worst Jaskier’s ever heard, which must mean that this bet is all in the winning. His breath catches in his throat and he knows, he knows, he knows before he even asks, “And if I don’t?”

A searing, biting kiss pressed to the back of his neck as Geralt fairly growls, “Then I’ll open you up on my fingers and make you come until you can’t anymore.”

It’s a promise, it’s a _threat_ , and Jaskier _wants_. He rolls his hips back against Geralt’s, tilts his head far enough to nip at the underside of his jaw and flashes him the most wicked smile he has. 

“You’re on.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings for:  
> *under-negotiated kink - Geralt denies Jaskier an orgasm and only makes an opt-out clear afterwards, but there is no dub-con or non-con  
> *semi-public sex tag relates to sex in a public place (an open road) with no others around
> 
> As always, if you have any questions or concerns, you can leave a comment below or message me at my [tumblr](https://violet-dissonance.tumblr.com/).


End file.
